


Beignets

by mikeymagee



Category: Aquaman (2018)
Genre: Breakfast, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 05:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17482007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeymagee/pseuds/mikeymagee
Summary: David Kane has always loved his father...but a father son breakfast might help both Jesse and David realize how alike they really are.





	Beignets

David had never asked why he and his father lived on the seas. To him, diving under the blue oceans was as natural as riding your bike beneath the summer sky. It was his home. What was there to question?

 

Except...there were times when he wondered what surface life was like.

 

One morning, far beneath his ocean’s surface, tucked away to the far corner of the sea, sat the Manta Sub. David had known every inch of his father’s craft. He knew the corner on the starburst side of the vessel, the one where seawater liked to pool. He knew the best places to play hide and seek. He knew the secret chamber that led to his father study. He knew which Mess Hall seats stayed warmest whenever they traveled the Arctic. 

 

This morning however, was a special day. His father had summoned him. Jesse Kane, David’s father, was a man of many contradictions. He gave orders like a general, stood proud like a king, and could fight like a dog. But when it came to his son, all of his hardened demeanor melted away like salt in a brine. 

 

“Dad?” David asked as he approached his father’s study. His voice was barely above a whisper. He knocked against the metal door that parted his father’s world from his own. “May I enter?”

 

“Enter, my son,” came the reply. 

 

David steeled himself, puffed his chest out as if he were the king of all seven seas. He pushed against the metal door, and followed his father’s voice. 

 

His father’s study seemed, to David at least, as big as a palace. Its walls were adorned with wooden masked, shaped with broad noses, deep chins, and dark faces. Faces that David recognized every time he looked at his own reflection. Behind his father’s desk hung an oil painting that was called “Mutiny on the Amistad.” It was one of his father’s favorites, and it represented everything David knew about his old man. Strength. Courage. Pride in personal history. 

 

“My son,” Jesse said, “Sit, I have a surprise for you.”

 

A surprise? David tried his best to keep his puzzled expression to himself. His father wasn’t a man who dabbled in surprises (well, at least not for his allies. His enemies, however were a different matter). 

 

Jesse chuckled at his son’s face. “Have a seat,” he gestured towards a small dining table towards the side of the room. David had been so enchanted by his father’s decor that he didn’t even notice it. Being unaware of your surroundings was a fatal mistake on the battlefield. David scolded himself. He needed to be better. 

David took a seat, and his father did the same. The table was lined with dish after dish, hidden beneath silver domes. Two plates sat before the chairs. One cracked on its edge, and the other tinted with a brown stain. They were old, almost as old as the sea tales his father told him before bedtime.

 

“David, my son.” Jesse smiled, “I thought it may be prudent, if you and I...had breakfast together.”    

 

“Breakfast?” David asked. When was the last time he and his father had enjoyed a meal together? David could not remember. Normally, their bonding moments were peppered with talk of training, recountings of battle strategies, and constant planning. But this...this was something David had not expected. 

 

His father lifted the silver domes to reveal a bowl of grits, fried fish, eggs, and bacon cripsed to its edges. 

 

“I’ll have the men bring some milk and apple juice to the study soon. It wouldn’t be a breakfast without something to drink, right?” Jesse asked with a smirk.

 

This was nothing like the breakfast David usually enjoyed. Protein bars and fresh water were usually staples of his diet. A warrior’s lifestyle began with what he consumed. At least, that’s what his father preached. But there was something slightly different about David’s old man. There was a strange sadness that wafted over the old man’s shoulders; soft as a siren’s serenade. 

 

“Wow Dad,” David said as he pulled up his fork and stabbed a piece of fish. “This looks really great.” 

 

“I’m glad you like it,” Jesse said. He took a spoonful of grits and plopped it onto his plate. “You know, your grandfather and I used to cook breakfast together all the time.” And then he paused...as if he had been pinned to the bottom of the sea floor. He dropped his spoon, and sunk his chin into his chest.

 

“Dad?” David asked. Fear was a language the Kane family was forbidden to speak. Fear led to mistakes. Mistakes led to death. Beneath the ocean’s surface, there were countless things to fear...but if you allowed those emotions to control you, you wouldn’t get anywhere. Never had David seen his father’s face so...barren. So fraught with strange anxiety. 

 

Jesse smiled, “I never told you about your grandfather, have I?”

 

David shook his head. His father never spoke of their family, even David’s mother was a mystery to him. Every time the young boy asked, Jesse Kane would only shake his head and say “I’ll tell you when you’re older. Until then, keep your mind focused on your training.” 

Jesse Kane took a spoonful of grits and gently placed it between his lips. “When I was your age, my father and I would cook together all the time. He taught me how to make grits, hush puppies, gumbo. But breakfast was probably our favorite meal to make.”

 

Jesse grinned as his son reached for the sugar bowl. “I had a pretty big sweet tooth back then. Kind of like how you do now.”

 

David froze. 

 

“Well, like father like son, right?” Jesse said. He looked up at his study, the Yoruba masks that adorned every wall. The paintings that told stories older than the countries they were made in. “I-I guess having you here, having breakfast, father and son...it just reminded me of how much I miss him.” 

 

“I remember once, he and I were trying to make beignets,” a sly grin pulled at the corners of Jessie’s mouth, “beignets are like little doughnuts from Louisiana.” Jessie scratched at his head, had David ever had beignets before? He needed to take his son to New Orleans one of these days. “Anyway, the doughnut things are supposed to get powdered sugar, right? Kind of like snow on a mountain. It looks pretty.” Jessie grinned wider now and his throat began to gurgle, trying to stifle his laughter. “So after my Dad...uh, your Granddad, fried ‘em he reached for the powdered sugar. He couldn’t find it. And he turned to me and said,” Jessie deepened his voice and slipped into an old drawl, “‘Boy, have you seen the dustin’ suga?’ And then he turned to me, and my mouth and shirt, and chin was covered in the crap.” 

 

David smiled.  His father’s voice was so warm. So soft and brittle, like a layer of ice giving way to warm water. “And what did he do afterwards?” David asked, his chin perked and his ears alert. 

 

“He took a towel and wiped every bit of sugar off a’ my face. It felt like it took hours,” Jessie said.    And David laughed. And Jessie laughed. And they ate. 

  
  
  
  
  


“How hard could it be to make beignets?” David said. From what his father had told him, it was a simple matter. Dough, sugar, butter, eggs. David Kane was quite capable despite his age. He could track large sea mammals for miles with nothing but his eyes. He could scale ships in minutes. He could fight with the best of them, and his engineering prowess was second only to his father. So...how hard could it be to fry dough?

 

Well...very hard. As David soon found out.  The dough had not risen. The eggs were not beaten in properly. And David was beginning to suspect his placed far too much sugar in the batter. There were mixing bowls filled with dough, powdered sugar on every countertop and David’s face was so covered in flour, that for a moment he thought he was white. The submarine was always stocked with supplies. Wheat, flour, food, rations. David’s father always wanted to make sure they and the rest of the crew had enough to eat. He was a stickler about not wasting food. One meal could be the only thing standing between your crew and starvation. If his father could see the mess David had made in the kitchen...he’d blow a hole so huge there wouldn’t be enough sea water in the world to fill it.

 

“David?” came his father’s voice. 

 

“Oh no,” David whispered. The young boy looked in horror at the spilled flour, the countertops coated in sugar, the tipped syrup and the pans that dripped onto the floor. His father was going to kill him. 

 

Jesse’s footsteps echoed through the hallway chamber, and his eyes stopped at the sight of his son, covered in flour and sugar, and his kitchen looking like the end of a lost war. The air was pregnant with the smell of dough and the warm taste of spilled sugar. For the briefest of seconds...Jesse felt as if he were being cradled in someone’s arms. 

 

“David?” Jesse asked, “What the hell did you do?” He tried to sound stern, in control, as if the child standing in front of him were one of his men who had failed in their assignment. But even with all the strength of will Jesse had he couldn’t help but feel his heartbeat a gentle tune. 

 

“Hello father,” David said. “I-I wanted to surprise you.” He grabbed a bowl half filled with dough. “You said you really liked these doughnut things, and you were so kind to make breakfast for me yesterday, I thought I’d return the favor.” And then he quickly added, “I was planning to make enough for you and the crew of course. A leader always places his crew first.” David stiffened his back, trying to seem as militaristic as his father. The young boy closed his eyes, waiting for whatever punishment his father deemed acceptable. What would it be this time? A lecture? Extra training? A belt to his hind legs? David shook, whatever was going to happen, he would face it with his back straight and his chin strong. 

 

“Hold still,” Jesse said.

 

“Yes sir,” David obeyed, never once opening his eyes. But instead of a hard slap, or a rigid tongue, David felt a soft cloth on his cheek. 

 

“You’re covered in this crap, son,” Jesse said.

 

David looked up as his father dabed a towel in against the faucet, and wiped away every last bit of flour and sugar, revealing what was so obvious to so many. This young boy, drenched in the makings of a breakfast feast, was the son of Jesse Kane. 

 

“You’re not mad?” David asked.

 

“Oh son,” Jesse smiled, “I’m furious, and you’re gonna clean all this crap up and then I’m gonna think of what kind of a punishment to give you.” Jesse licked his palm and removed the last remaining sugar soot from David’s forehead. “But first, I’m gonna help you make breakfast, and then we’re going to eat it.”

 

Was this what surface life was like? Up there, beneath the blue skies and white clouds.

 

“You put way too much sugar in these, David,” Jesse said as he dipped his finger in the batter. “It’s tough and won’t fry right.” 

 

Father and son, stuffed together in a kitchen, kneading dough, beating eggs, handing down tales as easily as a sailor swaps beer mugs? 

 

“There,” Jesse said, “That’s better. Now drop it in the oil. Carefully. Don’t let it splatter.” 

 

Was this what it was like to live on dry land? To watch your father recount tales of his youth. 

 

“Trust me son, you’re gonna love these.” 

 

Passing down wisdom from one generation to the next. To carry with us the memories of those we have never known. And for David? That was more than enough. 

  
  


 


End file.
